


Food American Style

by vanillafluffy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Food Trucks, M/M, Throw canon in a blender and hit puree, food truck au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 08:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12955281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: The Sniper!Bros get a food truck.





	Food American Style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



> For a prompt that was posted _a year and a half ago_. It got long. It got stalled. I finally dug it out and got it into shape--and here it is. Happy holidays!

It starts on a brutally hot afternoon in Kandahar. Barnes and Barton are sitting back-to-back in a tower, giving the two snipers a superior field of fire, schmoozing about what they want to eat when they get back Stateside. This segues into a discussion about what they can actually cook. It turns out that Barnes spent most of his high school years with a side-job at a Brooklyn bakery. Barton, who grew up a carny--and is damn proud of it--knows his way around a grease wagon and swears he can make the best heart attack on a plate you’ll ever taste. 

One thing leads to another, and by the time their tours are up, they’re buds, making plans to pool their savings and buy a food truck. It’ll be great. They can do what they enjoy doing, and maybe make a shitload of money along the way. “With nobody shooting at us,” Barton says, listening to the sound of gunfire, and Barnes agrees that that’s a good thing.

Back home, they get a lead on a secondhand truck in Philly. They go over it from one end to the other: The kitchen is almost pristine, the equipment is good, and the log the former owner kept shows regular maintenance and documents every new spark-plug. And wonder of wonders, it’s in their price range. Driving it to up New York, they make more plans. Neither of them is overjoyed that their vehicle is painted red, white and blue with swirls of color and pop-art stars, and the name, Food American Style, causes identical bitch-faces to appear. 

Clint Barton shakes his head. “We’ve got to come up with a better name.” They really have more of a fusion slant, but sadly, their top pick, ‘The Melting Pot’, is already taken.

“If we were going to specialize in salads, we could call it Valley Forage,” Barnes comments with an almost straight face. The dogtags he still wears identify him as Barnes, James B., but he goes by Bucky for reasons Clint’s never bothered to ask.

Clint groans. “Mount Lunchmore,” he suggests. “Nah, never mind. We can’t afford to repaint it...I mean, we could, but it’s not like we’re living down anybody’s bad rep..”

“Might as well keep it,” Barnes agrees practically, “and use that money for operating expenses.” 

Based in Brooklyn, they’ve got a facility where they can park, keep supplies and in flagrant violation of zoning regs, live. Bucky knows the neighborhood--it’s safe enough. There’s a gym down the block where they can work out and catch showers, a laundromat on the corner, and multiple restaurants within walking distance, because after cooking all day, they often decline to cook for themselves. 

Occasionally, they bump into somebody Bucky knows, and Clint notices he always asks after a guy named Steve. When he asks who Steve is, Bucky sighs. “Guy I grew up with. Knew him since we were in second grade. He always had a lot of health problems...I haven’t been able to find him, nobody’s seen him in a while...I’m worried maybe he didn’t make it.”

“That’s rough, man,” Clint says awkwardly. “But hey, maybe he moved or something.”

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t look convinced, but he pastes on a smile and starts talking about suppliers.

Now all they have to do is build a reputation and convince enough people to make them their go-to lunch spot. It’s easier said than done; it’s not just about the tastiness of Clint’s Reuben egg rolls or Bucky’s chocolate-dipped coconut scones. There are already a lot of trucks that have staked out territories in Manhattan and their proprietors get downright surly toward newcomers. They might just get shot at, after all….

After a few weeks of being chased away from every patch that looks feasible, they’re starting to think about investigating New York’s outer boroughs...when Bucky sees it. There’s a wide plaza between two office buildings and no sign of competition. Clint is so excited Bucky has to convince him not to drive over the sidewalk and set up shop then and there. It’s too late for lunchtime today. Bucky persuades him that they’ll get there early tomorrow, hell, they can take extra pastries and do breakfast and lunch.

One of the things Clint insisted on when they’d made up the menu board was a line that said, “Add a fried egg to anything, $1”. He’s so convinced this is going to be their happy hunting ground that he picks up an extra gross of eggs. Bucky stocks up on butter, mostly for scones. Back at their base, Bucky starts proofing dough for three hundred ciabatta rolls and gets busy on the scones: Six dozen each of four different kinds.

As soon as they get there the next morning, they’re swarmed. Apparently the employees of SHIELD Security Systems (on their left) and Stark Industries (on their right) have been craving variety in their diets and are only too happy to seek it out at Food American Style. 

They’ve never been so busy. They’re completely out of eggs by 8:45, and Bucky’s worrying that he should’ve made a few dozen more scones and hoping the ciabatta rolls last til lunchtime.

The rolls run out shortly after noon, but their voracious customers are happy to dine on Reuben egg rolls, fried bologna quesadillas or Clint’s falafel-battered corn dogs. (“Whatever,” Clint said when Bucky pointed out that technically there was no corn in them.)

There’s a guy who shows up the third or fourth day, when they’re starting to get into a rhythm. He orders the fried bologna quesadilla and asks if they have Eggbeaters for the fried egg on top. Which they don’t. It never occurred to Clint that anyone would even want fake eggs, but this guy seems cool, and whatever the customer wants, within reason....

“No, man, sorry. We’re out, but if you try back tomorrow, I’ll keep some in reserve just for you.”

“Okay,” says the guy, whose badge reads ‘Coulson’. “Just this once, I’ll try it with a real egg. But whatever you do, don’t tell my doctor.”

“You’re not gonna keel over, are you?” Clint wants to know, half-serious. “Because it’s bad for business, having the customers croak on our doorstep.”

Bucky throws a sweet-and-sour meatball at him. “Geez, Barton, way to be sensitive to people’s health issues!” He leans over to look out the window at Coulson. “You’re not, are you?”

Coulson’s an average-looking guy. Not really old or young, basic suit that he probably got off the rack --but he has a warm smile and there’s a conspiratorial twinkle in his brown eyes. “Probably not, but Bruce--my doctor--has a thing about cholesterol. I don’t want to let myself in for that lecture again. He’s a great guy most of the time, but when he gets upset, watch out!”

Clint smiles and starts working on his order.

After that, he makes sure he’s got Eggbeaters on hand, although there’s zero demand from anyone else. One average carton usually lasts a week. Over time, Coulson becomes ‘Phil’, and Clint always makes his order personally.

From the start, Food American Style makes money. They have to work for it, but it doesn’t feel like a chore when they’re bantering back and forth with each other and their customers. Most of them are regulars from SHIELD and Stark and the surrounding buildings. The two entrepreneurs are charming enough that the tip jar alone covers their fuel expenses. The only thing that stops them from hiring someone to work the register is the thought of trying to shoehorn another warm body into the truck while they’re cooking. They’ve got someone in mind, if business gets much busier, a para-rescue pal of theirs who spent some time as a short-order cook before enlisting.

Clint notices Bucky eyeing a dark-haired woman from SHIELD. She’s a regular, out there most mornings for a chocolate-dipped coconut scone. At least twice a week, Bucky comps her a cup of coffee, but Clint’s never seen them talk about anything that isn’t, “The usual?” “Yes, thank you.”

One morning as she’s walking away, scone and cup in hand, Bucky watching her go, Clint leans over and comments, “Nice ass” just to see what Bucky’s reaction will be.

“Keep your voice down!” Bucky snarls, although he hadn’t said it loudly and she’s forty feet away by now. The ex-sniper gives Clint a look that reminds him that Barnes has an impressive kill record, and he has to live with the guy.

“Don’t worry, she’s not my type.” Sure, she’s got great bone structure, dresses to show off a tight figure and has legs for days, but that’s just not Clint’s personal idea of attractive. She’s probably out of Bucky’s league, too, but hey, not his problem.

“No,” Bucky drawls, looking across the plaza. “Here he comes now.” 

Yup, there’s Phil, pausing for a moment to say something to Bucky’s crush. Without bothering to deny it, Clint pulls out the Eggbeaters and bologna, slaps a tortilla on the grill and looks over at his friend. “Okay, so?” 

Bucky chuckles. One of the good things about him is, he doesn’t hold a grudge. “I didn’t say a thing.”

Phil has good timing. Most days he gets there during the little lull between coffee break and lunch, which gives him and Clint a chance to chat for a few minutes. Not about anything earth-shaking-- sports, movies, news of the day--but it feels like it might be leading up to something more.

Today he and Phil are discussing the Mets line-up--underwhelming--when Bucky makes a noise that sounds like he’s just sliced his arm off. He drops the spatula he’s been scraping the grill with, flings open the back door and bolts from the truck.

What the hell?

Seated on the edge of a planter on the Stark side of the plaza is a young man with blond hair, holding a sketch book which clatters to the concrete as Bucky dashes up. Bucky and the blond are hugging and slapping each other on the back, and then they’re talking animatedly.

“That’s Steve Rogers,” Phil says, turning away from the reunion to look at Clint. “He’s the artist who did the mural in our lobby, and I understand Stark has him on retainer for whatever projects Stark Industries comes up with. He’s really talented. I’d like to invest in some of his work while I have a chance of being able to afford it.”

“Buck’s been looking for his childhood buddy. They lost contact while he was deployed. I knew the guy’s name was Steve...I guess this is the guy.” It occurs to him that this is a good time to make inquiries Bucky would shy away from. “Hey, I was curious--who was that woman you were talking to a minute ago?” Phil’s eyebrows arch. “Just now. Dark hair, blue eyes, wearing a dark blue suit.”

“You want to know about Maria Hill?” There’s surprise in Phil’s voice, and he’s looking at Clint as if he’d asked to see his underwear.

“Bucky’s got a thing for her. All I know is, she’s here most days for a scone and he keeps giving her free coffee.” Phil relaxes as Clint explains. “He never says anything to her, he just looks. I wondered if she’s even available, or if she’s got a husband and two kids on the Upper West Side.”

Phil shakes his head, looking amused. “Does your friend like to wrestle tigers in his spare time? As far as I know, Maria isn’t seeing anyone, but she’s ex-Marine Corps and does not suffer fools.”

Clint and Bucky have been in a few bar brawls together. “I think he can hold his own.” 

“If you’re interested, I could try to set them up...maybe we could try a double-date?”

A hot rush of bliss sweeps over Clint. “I’d like that, Phil. And I’m sure Bucky will be over the moon.”

By the time Bucky comes back to the truck with the long-lost Steve in tow, Clint and Phil have exchanged phone numbers so they can make arrangements for their dinner, and Phil has taken his quesadilla back to his office.

Bucky is beaming. “Clint Barton, Steve Rogers,” he announces.

Clint isn’t above deviling his partner in a good cause. “Of course, Steve Rogers the artist,” he enthuses. “You did that great mural for SHIELD, and I hear Stark has you on retainer. It’s good to meet you.”

Bucky is giving him a How-the-fuck-do-you-know-more-than-I-do-about-my-buddy? look. Clint keeps a straight face and smiles at the newcomer.

“Thank you,” Steve says, looking boyishly self-conscious. 

“A retainer?” Bucky frowns. “That’s like an exclusive contract, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s more like first dibs,” Steve tells him. “I can take other commissions, I just have to clear it with Tony if I’m going to be away longer than a week or two.”

The guy is on a first name basis with a major CEO, Phil thinks he’s got talent, and he’s Bucky’s oldest friend. He doesn’t seem stuck up, though, so Clint nods and asks if he’s had lunch yet.

“Nothing with nuts,” Bucky says firmly. “He’s deathly allergic. And no strawberries. Or tomatoes. Or--” That lets out the peanut butter chicken, the Italian Stallion sub, the sweet-and-sour meatball sub--hell, most of the menu. Maybe a falafel dog, hold the secret sauce?

“It’s okay,” Steve grins. “These days, the only thing I’m allergic to is Mondays.”

“What are you talking about?;” Bucky demands.

“I was a guinea pig for an experimental treatment from Stark Pharmeceuticals. My lungs had gotten so bad I kept turning blue and fainting if I stood up too fast, or tried to do anything. I was a mess.”

“Huh. You’re not wheezing,” observes Bucky. Looking at Rogers, Clint has to admit, he doesn’t seem like the sickly specimen his friend had described. He’s lean, but not skinny, and he exudes vitality. “That must have been some treatment.”

“I’m lucky. The results weren’t consistent with all the test subjects. There was one guy, Schmitt, who was a dick to begin with--he ended up on the psych ward at Bellevue, howling about ruling the world. And--” Steve shakes his head. “Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.”

“I’m glad you’re doing so good,” says Bucky. He’s put together a fried bologna quesadilla while they talked, and hands it through the window to his friend. “You weren’t in the old neighborhood, I thought the worst.”

“I have an apartment in the Tower. It’s got a real nice view of the bridge.”

The lunchtime hordes have begun to converge upon them, and for the next little while, there’s no chance to get better acquainted with the young artist.

“Who the hell is that?” Bucky asks out of the corner of his mouth. Steve is sharing his lunch with a pretty blonde, and they’re both smiling and laughing.

“Some girl. How do hell do I know?”

“But you know about some damn mural, and I’m pretty sure you’ve never even been in the SHIELD building.” 

There’s an undertone to his voice that surprises Clint as unlike Bucky’s usual equanimity. He wonders what that’s about, but the middle of the lunch rush is no time to get into it. He comes clean. “Phil was telling me about it. He said the artist is really talented, but I didn’t know he was your Steve.” Bucky slaps garlic aioli on a roll, as Clint adds, “He asked me out.”

This earns him a side-long look as Bucky piles on pepperoni, salami and provolone. “Great.” he says flatly, smashing the tomato slices atop the meat like he’s as soon throw them at someone.

“He was talking about a double-date.”

Wrapping the sandwich in waxed paper, Bucky gives it to his customer and gets the next order. “Look, you know I don’t give a damn which way you swing, but that’s not my thing,” he growls, grabbing a tortilla. 

“I know that,” Clint says, patiently handing over two eggrolls and a bottle of tea. “You want the usual, Mr. Kazminsky? Coming right up.” Grabbing two falafel dogs out of the fridge, he pops them into the fryer. “There’s a single lady he works with, I guess he figures it’ll be less awkward for him and me if you and her are along.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything else on the subject while they’re filling orders, and finally the rush tapers off. Clint figures he’d better not spill the beans about who the gal is supposed to be until it’s a done deal. No use getting him stirred up. If Hill sees Bucky when he’s all dressed up, she might go for him--Clint has seen him when he makes an effort--the guy cleans up good. 

“So what happened to your girlfriend?” Bucky asks when Steve approaches Food American Style.

“Her lunch break was over, but I’ll introduce you guys later. Sharon’s fantastic.”

“Little Stevie’s got a girlfriend,” Bucky says, like he can’t quite believe it. “Used to be, he couldn’t even talk to a girl without needing his inhaler. So what happened, stud?”

“Shut up,” Steve says, blushing. “Her aunt was one of the researchers documenting the details of the project. She introduced us.” Bucky and Steve banter while Clint cleans up. They insult each other constantly, with an affectionate tone that makes him wistful. He’d like to be that close to someone…maybe soon he will.

Thank god Bucky seems to be over his mood. Clint still isn’t sure what set him off--was it him knowing that little bit of gossip about Steve? Did he think Clint was flirting with his pal? He should know by know, Clint flirts with everybody. Or maybe he’s envious because Clint has a date with Phil, but as far as he knows, Maria Hill is out of his reach? 

Clint can’t stop smiling as he secures the truck for the drive back home. So far, he and Phil have hit it off; the thought that Phil’s willing to take them beyond a lunchtime relationship gives the former sniper a tingle of anticipation. And if Bucky makes an effort to wow the object of his affections…. Take off the apron and hairnet and clean him up, the guy isn’t exactly a troll…. 

For months, they’ve both been in a neverending cycle of work-work-work--now maybe they can diversify and have some fun. Their dream to have a food truck is working out better than they’d imagined, there’s potential romance around the corner and hey, no one’s shooting at them.

 

...


End file.
